The Perfectly Perfect Word
by Serrafina
Summary: Spike receives a reward before he dies. SemiBtvs crossover.


The Perfectly Perfect Word

Disclaimer: I do not own Spike/William, Whistler, Cecily, the waiter, etc. They're all property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.

AN: This is my response to Challenge # 1 on BW.

Whistler watched intently as the events played out before him. 

_A narrow alleyway crowded with demons, dead and alive. The living clambered over the corpses that hadn't disintegrated, melted, burst into flame, or self-destructed in any other way. Two figures fought back to back, surrounded on all sides by enemies. _

_A taloned hand wrapped around the arm of one of the two, and a long leather jacket was torn from his shoulders. He growled and lunged toward the offender, but in his rage he didn't notice the sword approaching the back of his neck until the blade touched skin._

Whistler snapped his fingers and froze the scene on that image. He studied the faint surprise in the vampire's gleaming eyes for a few seconds before finalizing his decision. The demon placed one hand on top of his hat to make sure it didn't fall off in transit, then carefully stepped through the looking glass.

Whistler shuddered as his senses took in the multi-colored gore splashed all around and the overwhelming stench of death. He did his best to ignore it as he sauntered through the battle-alley, stepping over and around the still bodies, some frozen in the act of killing, and some in the act of dying. He stopped in front of the vampire that was in the midst of the latter.

"Spike."

The sound of his name awoke the vampire and he shook his head in confusion as he looked at the motionless figures around him and the short man in front of him who wore more colors than Lorne. "What–"

"I'm on a schedule, so just listen for a sec," Whistler said. "You're dying, although I suppose you might have figured from the sword about to sever your spinal column."

Spike twisted his head very carefully to eye the weapon that was indeed in the process of decapitating him. "Well, it's not exactly unexpected," he said calmly.

Whistler sighed and looked down at the ground for a moment before meeting Spike's eyes. "Look kid, I ain't here to give you your Shanshu. We can't do that. And we can't save you either."

"Then why are you here? Get lost on your way to the circus?"

"Hey," Whistler protested, "be nice or I won't give you your reward."

"You just said–"

"I said we weren't gonna let you live, kid. But you do get a reward. You had a choice after coming back, and you chose to die in a place like _this_," Whistler said with a snort, "fighting things like _that_." He nodded towards the demon gripping the sword. "The bosses up there notice stuff like that. So yeah, you get a reward. Pick whatever, within reason. You know, something smallish that doesn't actually affect anything. Go get high again in the 60s, bang your girlfriend one more time, see the premiere of _Casablanca, _have another pack of smokes or whatever."

Spike was silent for a few moments, feeling oddly serious. "I finished it," he said quietly. "It took me a bloody century but I finished it and I want to show those poncy buggers."

William scowled down at his paper and fiddled with the pen between his fingers. "Luminous," he muttered to himself. "No, no, no, irradiant's better."

"Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?" the waiter's sleek voice interrupted.

But William was trapped in the throes of art and could not be distracted with hors d'oeuvres. "Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for 'gleaming'? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see."

The waiter shot him a tight-lipped smile and moved away. As he did, William spotted a strange figure in the shadows behind the man. When the waiter was gone, the stranger stepped into the light and William took in his appearance with a large degree of shock. The man looked bizarrely familiar, but his dress was entirely foreign to the young poet. The man's hair was cut very close to his head and contained an unnatural sheen.

This man looked entirely uncouth, and William found himself very unsettled. "Unless you have another word for 'gleaming,' I don't think we have any business with each other and would prefer it if you left me to my solitude," he said in the clearest voice he could manage.

"As a matter of fact," the man drawled in a distinctly lower-class accent, "I have." He patted his trousers and then retrieved a folded square of paper from one of the pockets. He tossed the paper onto the table before a bewildered William.

William hardly dared look at the paper. "What is this?" he said indignantly. "Who are you?"

"A soon-to-be-dead man. More than that, I can't say. But take my advice, from one soon-to-be-dead man to another. Read it. You'll like it."

William looked from the paper back to the strangely familiar man in front of him. He did not understand any of this, but he could not bring himself to question the man further.

Spike looked at the confused young man, then cast his gaze towards the party-goers. His eyes alighted on the figure of his first love, whose face had dimmed over the years. She was pretty enough, but he felt nothing when he looked at the woman whose cruel words had sent him into a darkened alleyway, tears glistening in his eyes and blurring the image of Drusilla as she approached. Spike smirked as he turned back to William who was staring at Cecily, completely smitten.

"You're a bloody fool for love and you always will be," he told the other man. "So what's the point in fighting it, eh? Anyway, time's a wasting. Got to get back to my final death, and all. Ta."

William watched, dumbfounded, as the man sent him a lazy salute and then disappeared in a whiff of blood, leather, and smoke. In that instant, William realized with a terrible certainty where he had seen that face before: his looking glass. But that was a ridiculous idea, and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't perhaps had too much to drink when he remembered the paper the man had given him. With trembling fingers, he unfolded it and scanned the lines:

_My soul is wrapped in harsh repose,_

_midnight descends in raven-colored clothes,_

_but soft...behold!_

_A sunlight beam_

_cutting a swath of glimmering gleam._

_My heart expands,_

_'tis grown a bulge in it,_

_inspired by your beauty_

_effulgent._

A timid smile broke out on his face and he began to laugh, wild, unrestrained laughter. Feeling strangely confident, he rose from his seat, poem clutched in his hand, and began to weave through the crowd in search of Cecily.

The End


End file.
